


18) You're Bleeding Magic

by cynosure_phrases



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Car rides, Carry On Round Robin, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Power Sharing, Secret Relationship, Simon Hates Simon (The Cat), Watford Sixth Year, magic sharing, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 10:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: Like boundaries. Like survival.The issue of us. Us. Us us us us us…-Ham and cheese sandwiches, a new relationship, and a test, of sorts. Sixth Year is not off to a good start.





	18) You're Bleeding Magic

**Author's Note:**

> oh god, oh fuck, hey everyone. hi, yes. i'm (little bit more than) a tad nervous, being the first Round Robin chapter post-wayward son, but i can promise, there's nothing in here tied to the book. with that said, i hope i did the rest of the round robin team justice, as well as for the boys (and the fandom). i'm sorry for the short length of this, but i hope everyone enjoys!  
thank you to everyone who went before me. thank you to @basic-banshee/@basicbathsheba for organizing this, and thank you to @sharkmartini for betaing this for me at like, 2 in the morning, and thank you to the readers keeping this alive xoxox  
title is from "Bleed Magic" by IDKHow, and my trope is power sharing!

**BAZ**

Fiona agreed to drive us back.

Still, yes, us. Us  _ plural _ . Us-- _ “He loves me” _ \--us. Us-- _ ”I’m afraid he’ll die snogging me” _ \--us.

Snow and I, us.

This  _ us _ part is a bit complicated. And head-spinningly new. So new that I haven’t gotten a proper answer for what we do once we make it to Watford. I  _ want _ the answer to be for us to have gross, full hair-pulling, disgusting mouth-noises make out sessions on the green, in front of everyone for them and their grandmothers to gawk at in horror. I want him  _ excessively _ and  _ undoubtedly _ attached to me for the flaunting.

I want the security of knowing he’s properly mine.

But what I want and what we need are two very separate things.

There’s a few things we  _ need _ before the things that I want come into play. We need The Mage not to figure out a way to rip us apart (which he might very well do, shred-by-shred). Snow needs to tell Bunce. I need to keep a certain level of discretion with those involved with The Families.

We need to keep it hidden. We need to keep it quiet (well, as quiet as we can after my lapse in judgement during last year’s dance).

We  _ need _ a plan, which is a bit difficult to figure out when your boyfriend would much rather ignore the concept of a plan altogether and ram himself headfirst into any possible situation, repercussions be damned.

Still, I try. I’m  _ trying _ .

I’m trying right now as I stare at him across the dining table, arms folded onto the back of a chair as he picks at what I think is his third sandwich. (Despite having an entire summer to learn that Snow is a bottomless pit, it seems as though my family’s cook caves and continues feeding him well past when he should be fine). I drum my fingers, letting the sound echo through the emptied room over his obnoxious chewing.

He’s looking at me like I’m a bore (or like I won’t let him finish another sandwich, and he might be right). “I don’t see why we need a game plan,” he mumbles, cheek full and voice muffled by what sounds like bread stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t see why, or don’t  _ want _ to see why?” I chide, lip pulling up as he continues to chew with his mouth open. Disgusting.

He gives me back a less-than-pleased look, seeming to open-mouth-chew more menacingly than before.

That’s another bit to this navigation--we don’t quite know where to steer our aggression once it hits.

It’s still there, just simmering below the new relationship label. It’s not like it disappears and everything’s all candy and unicorns. It’s dark. It’s strange. It’s difficult to not snap at him whenever he’s more than a tad idiotic, and it’s even more difficult to not snap back when he gets frustrated.

I think Snow’s figured that the only thing he can really do is kiss me hard, and hope I shut up. (I usually do, in all fairness.) (Usually.) (It won’t work for this, though. This is serious.)

“Don’t like feeling like I’m going into something,” he says it into the ham and cheese in his hands, going for another bite before continuing, “feels like a battle. Don’t like it.”

“You think I do?”

Outside, the soft slam of the ‘67’s boot is followed by the crunching steps of Fi’s docs against the gravel, heading towards the front door. And, while we’re in no real rush to get to Watford time-wise, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s  _ Fi _ driving us, and if we take all day having a pointless domestic while Snow takes back sandwich after sandwich, she’ll have my head.

He hears it too. The front door opening, the disgruntled grumbling and heavy wood creaking below her as she goes to retrieve something from her room. She’ll want to be out within the next 15, then.

I raise a brow to him, as if to beg him whether or not it’s a reasonable argument to have, and he gives in, shoulders hunching down while he stuffs another bite into his mouth.

“Fine.” I think I see crumbs spit out while he speaks. I must seem like I’d seen it, because he’s glaring at me like I’m giving him an equal look back. “We can talk shit out back at Watford. Can I just eat, please?”

I wave my hands, lifting them from the seat I’m leaned up against. “Let that be your last sandwich, then. Fiona  _ will _ murder you if you puke in her car.”

I hear him swallow as I turn to leave, which is followed by a distant “I think she might kill me anyway” after it.

I smirk at that, grinning to myself all the way outside.

For once, Snow’s got more than a half-filled duffel bag to bring back to the room.

Now, his is not quite the proper trunk. Not with engraved initials on the side, and it looks quite plain next to mine, but it’s his. Filled with his clothes. His belongings. His own  _ stuff _ .

We had to spell the boot elastic to fit it in, too. To give him space.

As if Snow needs more space in this world.

As if he doesn’t consume enough of mine. Enough to make me dizzy.

Enough that when I slide my hand against the humming metal body of the car, all I can think of is him complaining about sitting in the barely-there-backseat. And him frowning at Simon (the cat). And threatening to snog me against the side whenever Fiona steps off for a minute…

“Oi, where’s Boy Wonder?”

I whip around, startling as Fi starts walking forward with her nose in her mobile. At first, I blank. She gives him the occasional different nickname (“H-Bomb”, “The Mage’s Personal Footrest”, “Killboy Powerhead”), which, I suppose, is a tad better than simply “The Chosen One”. Mildly less condescending.

“Inside. Eating.”

She snorts. “When isn’t he?” She stops, gives me a once over, then pulls the side of her mouth in. She wants to say something, but I can tell that something about me is stopping her.

“Do you have a question, or am I that interesting?”

“Got nothing new to ask you.” I can hear the list of what she’s said before scroll through my head.  _ You’ve got to have a better plan than allyship, Baz. Crowley, you can’t just expect him to wave a hand and let you run the bloody school. Do you think he’ll actually cave? Will having all the shitbag’s little puppets in one place be a benefit, or will they turn you in? Does he know about… that? He doesn’t, right? Merlin, Baz, tell me he doesn’t-- _

“And I’ve got no new answers.”

_ Can’t you just stun him still and bust into The Mage’s office? You’re welcomed in there. Your whole bloodline will be, too _ .

She nods, lowering the aviators over her face--she thinks she looks Top Gun-cool--before pulling back her hair. “Go get him, then. Rather not sit out all day.”

Right. Like I would either.

I walk past her, peering into the dining room (empty plate, but no Snow), then into the kitchen (no Snow in there, either), then check most places where he’d possibly be until I hit my bedroom, slowly pushing the door open with a curious frown on my face. Why is he off up here…

**SIMON**

I hate this bloody cat.

I hate this bloody, fucking, stupid, bloody, idiotic fucking cat.

“I just wanna--” I whisper (to myself, it seems), going to reach for it while it darts away from me, tail flicking high into the air. I glare, spinning around, and following it slower than before.

Now, I’d figured that Baz would want this cat ( _ this fucking obnoxious little furball cat _ ), and hey, maybe he’d loosen up a bit if I could catch it and bring it down for him, but  _ no _ . This little bastard on four legs refuses to stay still  _ just _ long enough for me to grab it (well, except for the one time, but then it took a swipe), and now  _ I’m _ the idiot chasing this fucker around the room.

Which, of course, is where Baz finds me. Half crouched, arms out, and glaring at this fucking cat as I angrily whisper “ _ Here kitty kitty… _ ”

“Snow?”

I jolt, shooting upright as Baz slowly steps inside with an overly amused look on his face as  _ other _ Simon (bastard) happily pads up to him and rubs up against his leg.

I’m glaring at him (the cat) as I speak. “Just trying to do something helpful,” I grit, which makes Baz chuckle, a hand coming up to cover his face. I ignore it, getting into a staring contest with the fucker running around between my boyfriend’s legs (I  _ might _ be jealous of a cat).

Baz leans down and scoops him up, letting him curl up on his arms as he keeps that pleased look. “Come on.” Suddenly, his voice is soft. It makes me feel all tingly. “I’m afraid if we keep Fiona waiting, she might make us walk.”

I know he’s probably joking, but it’s not something I’d put entirely past her.

And, after all, she does make me sit in the backseat after a half-hearted judgemental once-over when we do get down there. Not that I expect much else from her, though, given I’m probably near the bottom of her list of people she’d like to drag around with her. At least we have mutual hatred for the fucking cat…

I nod to her as I climb in, getting myself as comfortable as physically possible as she shifts into drive.

**BAZ**

It’s a guilty pleasure of mine watching Snow bob in the backseat, growing increasingly pale and teetering on quite literally green.

I don’t enjoy the concept of getting puked on, though, so I do utter a “ ** _Get well soon_ ** ” on him when he’s not paying attention. He eases up then, closing his eyes and relaxing a bit into the upholstery. Feels like it’ll be smooth sailing from there.

Well, as smooth as the M3 in an old sports car can be. Motorway riding feels a bit distancing when you’re trying to focus on six things at once (boyfriend dying in the backseat, cat on your lap, aunt driving, her music, the impending doom of the school year, and the fact that the boy in the backseat  _ is your boyfriend _ ). Given the circumstances, I allow myself to space out briefly and absentmindedly look out over the familiar backdrop of the land around us as my thoughts focus more on the issues at hand.

Like boundaries.  _ Like survival. _

The issue of us. Us.  _ Us us us us us… _

I’m spaced out for a  _ while _ , and then I’m not.

I’m snapping back to a reality that seems more jarring than what I was busying myself with mentally.

“What the--”

I rub my eyes and look around. Simon (feline) is tensed, the hair on his back sticking up as Snow (human) is shifting in the backseat, the thick trickling of his magic hitting me in pulsing waves.

I look around, and see… nothing.

Well, not nothing.

I see trees. I see a clearing, vast and stretching.

I see the road around us, and the trees on the other side.

I know these trees. I know this area.

I know that it shouldn’t be empty. I know I shouldn’t see nothing, and I think we’re all a bit too shocked to properly react.

Fiona pulls to a stop, throwing on the blinker as we collectively gape at an unsettling, bare nothingness. Too much of it. A damned  _ school’s worth  _ of nothingness.

I don’t quite know what comes over me in the moment. Panic, maybe? Fight or flight? Or maybe Snow’s stupidity leaked into my system, oversaturated on his end and diffusing into me through all the snogging? Impulsivity has rotted away all my better reactions, I suppose, because I’m throwing myself out of the car and sprinting towards the field with a drawn wand.

There’s plenty of things that this could be. A trap (most likely). The Humdrum (least likely--no  _ feeling _ ). A nightmare (maybe a bit before The Humdrum on the list)

But this definitely,  _ definitely _ , isn’t real.

“ ** _Come out, come out wherever you are!_ ** ” I scream, pointing my wand outward. I feel Snow running after me, saying nothing but bringing everything about him (and, if I’m not mistaken, Fiona’s taken to jogging after him).

The spell doesn’t do anything. Not that I’d expect to reveal an entire school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try every uncovering spell in the book.

Snow draws closer as I keep running. “ ** _Ready or not, here I come! True colors!_ ** ”

I feel it hit me before anything else makes sense.

I slam into it, then bounce back a bit, stumbling and blinking, then stepping again.

It’s like hitting a fucking wall.

It  _ is _ hitting a fucking wall.

I pat my hand forward, and feel brick, but when I look, I just see fields upon fields of nothingness.

I inhale and smell it. The moat, the slow deterioration of buildings from time coupled with the heavy reapplied spell after spell of protection onto the drooping foundations. The welcoming, all-encompassing scent of  _ home _ .

It’s there, alright. It’s just not  _ there. _

Snow’s closing in, touching the same space where my hands are still as he follows along, tracing his fingertips over invisible brick. He reeks. He smells like he’ll set the grass on fire, which will help none of us ( _ especially me _ ) in this situation.

When I look over, I see that his sword’s already out and ready, hanging from his hand as his other one closes around my back. His eyes are wild, darting about while desperately trying to find a proper baddie to fight--something winged or clawed. Something with talons and hypnotic eyes, or a mist that alters perception.

But there’s nothing. There’s a wall to Watford, and no way to see inside. And it’s infuriating.

“ ** _Show yourself!_ ** ” I snap, pointing my wand forward before trying “ ** _Come out, come out wherever you are_ ** ” again, to no avail.

I feel the weight of Snow’s hand pressing into my back, warm and steady and thumping like his magic does. Like his magic  _ is _ . Like how it fills the air around us, making me nearly choke every time I breathe.

His palm rests against my shirt, then slides up, pressed strongly to my shoulder blade. I turn to him, eyes wide and unsure as he stares back and--

Something clicks. Like a switch. Like a fucking surge protector broke, and now I’ve got a nuclear power plant at my disposal. I shutter. I feel like I’m burning alive, but when I look down at myself, I’m fully intact.

I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know  _ how _ to describe it, but bloody hell, I think I could do a proper nursery rhyme.

I still myself, pressing back into his hand as my wand raises, unwavering. “ ** _Oh where, oh where, has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?_ ** ”

“Crowley, Baz!” I hear Fiona behind me. She sounds so close yet so distant. If I had half the mind I usually do, I’d be telling her to stand back. Instead, I’m too intoxicated on whatever Snow’s doing to me (a spell?) (Shit, maybe I am dead, and this is the surreal afterlife).

Snow’s hand slowly runs down my back, settling onto the dipping curve of my spine and shocking me into a shiver as I gasp and continue, voice raising. “ ** _With his ears cut short and his tail cut long,_ ** ” I call, watching the wall in front of me shimmer and start to filter back into existence as I start the final line. “ ** _Oh where, oh where could he be?_ ** ”

It all comes at once. A  _ pop _ into existence, and the swift, overwhelming detachment from whatever Snow just threw me into with the removal of his hand. It’s enough to make  _ me _ nauseous, stumbling back onto the ground behind me as Watford reappears in full.

And so does The Mage, about 50 feet away from us with a careful, studying gaze.


End file.
